On With The Show
by virusq
Summary: Garik "Face" Loran is working undercover to bust a notorious crime ring. The mission fails when the Falleen criminal falls for a vacationing Derek "Hobbie" Klivian. Add one Wes Janson and one three-ring circus, mix well and enjoy!


It was happening again: that sickly feeling in the back of his throat. He wished he could cough it up and be done with it, but he knew it wouldn't make a difference. It had been hours since he'd taken his medications, and they were wearing off; he could feel his fever seeping from every pore. Hobbie wiped the sweat from his face and regretted it; as his fingers brushed across his hair, he realized it was matted with sweat, blood and what he hoped was mud.

'What's the worst that can happen?' Janson had asked.

He'd thought about it. 'Well, a rancor in a tutu could maul me. (_You'd like that, wouldn't you._) It could rain and I could get my dress pants muddy. I could die of pneumonia, even. Lots of people have died of pneumonia.'

'You could get a girlfriend. Start a family. Raise little green pessimists that can juggle knives. They could breathe fire. I know: it'd be absolutely devastating. I'll do it so you don't have to.'

'She could say "no."'

That was before the day went to hell around him.

There was something odd about the girl that he just couldn't pinpoint. Of course, he never really had the opportunity to: the first time he met her, he couldn't hear her over the throbbing sensation in his forehead; She got angry and stormed away. The last time he saw her, he was too busy fending off a mass of wild animals to say hello.

He wondered if flowers would resolve the situation and then thought better of it. Perhaps it was best to move on.

He sneezed violently and searched around the room for a tissue. Even with the bad lighting, he could clearly see there was nothing in the room aside from his chair and the cold, durasteel table it sat at. Sighing, he tentatively wiped his hands on his already unrecognizable pant leg and wondered just how much more miserable he would have to look before someone behind the one-way glass would trust him with a decongestant.

Derek "Hobbie" Klivian was starting to wish the universe would just stop teasing and end it. It really didn't need to keep beating around the bush when it came to their mutual animosity. People knew.

He didn't think he'd miss the universe much, anyway. What was there to miss? He was sick. He spent more time in Bacta baths than his own bed. The food was bad. His dress uniform was itchy. His left arm was cold.

That last thought deserved further investigation, he decided as the realization slowly trickled through his feverous mind. He stared at his arm and suddenly realized he could see it; an odd fact since he had been wearing a shirt and jacket earlier. Maybe x-ray vision was a side effect of his antibiotics. No, wait, he was simply missing an entire sleeve: it had been torn off … By Ewoks.

Wherever it was, it was probably just as muddy as his slacks.

He cursed his luck, or lack thereof, then promptly apologized to it. The bar, the girl, the fight, and the police questioning: they were Janson's fault.

Hobbie sighed and slumped forward onto the table. The debriefing in the adjacent room was taking forever. They had forgotten him. He was doomed to spend eternity in a cold, damp interrogation room.

...

"Tell me again."

"My name is Kell Tainer," the dark haired man explained to the disgruntled investigator standing before him. There was no sense in trying to salvage his mission at this point, but there was also no reason to forfeit his partner's cover, either. "I'm an intelligence officer for the New Republic. I was planted in the circus, working undercover, in an effort to eliminate a notorious smuggling organization."

Being held in an interrogation room had not been Kell's plan for the evening. The room was oppressively small, the air tasted stale and whoever had designed his chair was obviously unaware of the fact that one size did not fit all.

"Ah," the man said simply. The news did nothing to soften the creases on his face. Kell briefly wondered if the droid behind the glass was even activated, let alone assigned to verify information. "So, you're telling me that the circus, the very place I've been taking my daughter for years, is actually a hotspot for slave trafficking? Was the pack of Greysors that you released on the audience high on giggledust?"

"No. And that whole bit with the banthas on the platform knocking out the center pole: I'm sorry. It wasn't," Kell stopped himself and took a deep breath. Breathing exercises were an invaluable part of his training. As a demolitions expert, nerve-wracking situations were commonplace and managing stress had never been a personal strong point. "Look, did you ever wonder why the circus was so popular?"

The officer took a swig from his cup of caf. "It's the mind-bending drugs the cute little animals slip into the spun-candy, right?"

"No. Think about it: When did you start attending? Five, six years ago? I bet you just walked by and thought it would be a great idea to take your whole family to the circus, right?"

The man shifted his weight and crossed his arms uncomfortably, "My daughter likes the blue Ewoks."

"They hired a new barker – spokeswoman – six years ago. Ms. Alyzun Kyte? You can't miss her: the green skin and revealing red outfits tend to stand out. She's a Falleen: they can control members of the opposite sex by emitting pheromones in high doses. Their attendance has tripled in that time."

The street-hardened officer was not about to admit that he knew exactly whom his suspect was speaking of. He knew her very well, in fact: his wife had often commented about his bizarre actions around her. "And you're magically immune to pheromones?"

The best place to hide a secret was in plain view: Kell stroked his absurdly thick mustache, a new addition to his person courtesy of the New Republic's finest chemical engineers. He smiled. "I have my methods."

"How can she run a smuggling operation with all that attention?"

"She can be very persuasive."

A headache began to form in the back of the officer's mind just as quickly as his expression soured. He didn't like it when suspects opened new cases when they opened their mouths. Regardless, he wanted to bleed out every detail before he released the man. "Let's go back to the part where you released the Greysors into the audience."

...

Ceros was a young, dark skinned, Zabrak male. He sat in an uncomfortable chair and massaged his front set of horns gently, eyes closed, while his suspect bounced around the chamber. The questioning was not going as expected. In fact, it was far from a textbook scenario.

His suspect, a human male with broad shoulders, beamed at him: his brown eyes shining in humorous contrast to the array of small tears and bruises on his face and limbs. His New Republic personnel file explained that he was an ace fighter pilot by the name of Wes Janson, stationed on planet under the command of a General Wedge Antilles. It also stated that he was in his mid-thirties, but his actions quickly put the text into question.

Immediately upon being seated, Wes Janson had requested a fruity drink with an umbrella in it. The young Zabrak officer was unsure as to how to proceed: most subjects naturally declined every creature comfort offered to them during an interrogation, no one ever asked for anything but a lawyer. He decided it would be best to decline the order and began his questioning.

As he assumed a practiced mask of intimidation, the human leapt out of his chair toward the window: distracted by a line of blue-furred Ewoks being ushered down the hall to their holding cells. The man bounced excitedly and waved at them, then turned back to him and held out the remains of a folded orange flight suit that his arresting officers had been unable to part from him. Strewn about the fabric, or what was left of it, one could find large scrawling text resembling names: autographs.

It was going to be a long day.

"Sit down," Ceros barked. The smile faded for a moment and Janson quickly found his seat. He waited a double-heart-beat before continuing. "Tell me what you were doing at the circus."

"It was a secret," Janson explained dutifully, "My superior officer has a thing for Ewoks, and I wanted to surprise him. When I heard there was a circus in town, I knew there had to be Ewoks featured somehow. I tried to convince him that he should bill the New Republic for unrestricted access passes, as a matter of global security, but he's such a Hutt these days. New baby, you see, the wife won't let him -"

Ceros threw up a hand instinctively, begging Janson to stop. In retrospect, it was fairly ironic: an interrogator that didn't want to hear the details. "What happened when you went to the circus?"

"You're getting ahead of me, now," Wes giggled, "My wing-mate, Hobbie, - have you seen him around? – has been sick since we landed, so I decided to take him out; cheer him up a bit. We found this really cheesy dive in the university district. It would have worked perfectly, but he was being so difficult!"

The man motioned toward Wes, curiously, "Is that where you got the bruises? Got into a fight with your wing-mate?"

"No. You keep interrupting me," Wes chided, "See, there was this green lady at the bar. She was really into Hobbie, and he was ignoring all the signs. It was getting ridiculous. Here the whole bar was buying her drinks and fishing for her frequency and she chose the only guy that wasn't interested: Sniffling, sneezing, pouting Hobbie."

"The men at the bar—"

"Ah ah," he warned the younger man. Impatience would get him nowhere. "He wasn't thirsty, he didn't want to dance, didn't want to go outside. He just didn't get it. She got so mad that she turned red and stormed out of the bar. He just stared, or sneezed, he's been doing both a lot lately: 'How about them Rancors?' Stare. 'What do you want to eat, Hobbes?' Sneeze. 'Hey, you should go talk to her.' Stare."

Ceros waited for the pause to continue his questioning. "Did anyone go after her?"

Wes frowned and concluded that Zabraks had no since of humor. "I started to, but Hobbie said he wanted to go back to the barracks, so we left, instead. On the way back, we picked up a couple of holos and a box of cold medicine-"

The officer was getting impatient. "And your involvement with the circus incident?"

Wes glanced out the window again, as a bearded Twi'Lek and a comically shaved Wookie were lead down the hall. "I recognized the woman from an advertisement for the circus the next morning at the mess hall. A squad mate brought it to my attention because it featured a segment on blue Ewoks. I acquired one of Wedge's flight suits, because that's where he keeps his spare credits, and we went to investigate!"

"We?" He was taking down as many notes as possible and needed the pronoun clarified. "Wedge Antilles went to the circus?"

"No, Hobbie and me. Wedge is a paper-pusher now, no fun, keep up." He grinned. "We arrived at the circus a bit late for the main attractions, so we took a peek in the other tents. I followed little blue-dye footsteps to the back of the Side Show tent and there they were! The blue Ewoks!"

"There was no security?"

"Um." It had struck Wes as odd that there had not been any security, in fact, but what would need securing? "Ewoks have a lot of fight in them for their size, so I didn't think about the lack of security. I mean, at first they were fairly alarmed by my enthusiasm, baring their cute little teeth and all, but when I explained that Wedge was a big fan, they were very helpful. I guess he's famous among the little guys. They invited him to a private performance, but he just doesn't have the time any more, so we settled on autographing his favorite flight suit."

"And?"

"Hobbie found the green lady! An argument broke out from the animal pens, between her and some guy with a fake mustache, though. Really, it was horrible, all bushy and lopsided. Anyway, I was going to go break up the fight, but the blurrgs started howling and stomping around their pens, the banthas were head-butting people and barricades, then the Ewoks jumped us."

The Zabrak arched a facial ridge, a gesture similar to raising an eyebrow in disbelief. "The Ewoks attacked you?"

"Yeah. I don't know what happened, everyone just went crazy. One of them lunged at Hobbie and he fell into a stack of Greysor cages and they scattered; which, of course, sent everyone screaming. We would have rounded them up, but we were, you know, preoccupied with the Ewoks."

Ceros nodded and wrote down a few more notes, then looked Wes straight in the eyes. "Tell me about the bar, again."

...

Hobbie's interview was surprisingly short. He had very little to say and the planetary security officer was just as eager to escape the possibility of contracting an unknown illness as Hobbie was to get home.

Statement finalized, the door to Hobbie's interrogation room had no sooner closed before sliding open again, admitting his mystery woman without hesitation. It took him a moment to recognize her: her skin tone was now a muted pink, her hair was pulled up under a cap and most of her was covered in non-descript military-blue clothing.

She triggered the dimming mechanism in the window to block the view in from the hallway and then sat down across from him, staring intently.

He was astonished and surprised. He had wanted to apologize to her for everything. He had a chance to make it right and win her over.

"Um," he said instead. Finely honed instincts told him to be suspicious of anyone sneaking into a security headquarters and he wanted to ignore them, "Do you work here?"

She unconsciously ran her tongue over an incisor or two before speaking up, a gesture more suitable for sizing up prey. "How do you do it?"

He drummed his fingers on the table unconsciously. The air was tense and he could hear what sounded like a fistfight forming down the hall. "How do I do what?"

"That." She squinted, searching for a clearer perspective. "Try as I might, you remain completely oblivious. The Tainer kid had that stupid mustache. It looked so ridiculous that it had to be a filter of some sort. It's clever, really. But you … you emit heat and sweat like the others, but your mind remains clear. I like that."

"I'm sorry," Hobbie offered. He wasn't quite sure what the woman was talking about, but experience had taught him that women liked apologies. "I don't know what happened at the bar; I don't even remember it, really. The ale and the meds—"

She stretched across the table and kissed him. His knees softened the moment her exotically cold lips brushed his. His mind was anything but clear. She grabbed his sweat-soaked collar and started to pull herself closer, breathing on his neck.

Against all desire, he put his hand up to stop her: Somewhere in the heat of the moment, his sinuses began to tickle. A colorful string of curses formed in the back of his mind as the disaster formed. She stared, confused. A question started to whine into existence and was quickly quelled.

With the emotionally devastating force of a turbo battery, Hobbie sneezed.

Again.

And again.

The silence that followed petrified him. He didn't dare look up from the mottled blue floor tile he was staring at. He didn't want to see the look of disgust or shock that he knew had replaced the seductive smile. He found himself wishing Janson were around to end the pain quickly, with a laugh.

"I'm sorry!" He said again, this time he meant it. "It's this damned fever! I've had it since I landed, and…"

"Forgive me," she whispered softly. Her black boots reappeared under the table with a delicate thud, "I didn't realize ... I'm … I'm going to go now."

"Yeah," he answered half-heartedly, watching her feet glide closer to the exit. "I'm really very sorry."

"It's alright," she soothed, pausing at the door. "I'm sure we'll get another chance, someday. Your friends are very persistent."

With that, the Falleen turned and left with the same grace that she had entered with, disappearing into a handful of security officers rushing about the hall; they acknowledged her presence just long enough for ignorant dismissal and went about their business.

"My what?" Hobbie looked up, her words sinking in. His mind was swarming with questions: How were his friends were involved? Which friends? Did Wes set him up? How did she miss the fact that he was sick? Were lips supposed to be cold?

He stared at the door, hoping it would open again. He expected someone to pop through the door to yell 'Surprise!'

They didn't.

...

Kell sat down and stretched his legs across the next bench over the moment he had been placed in a cell by himself. He figured he was enjoying it more than he should have, according to the grim stares radiating from adjacent cells. The thought didn't bother him, however, since he knew he wouldn't be alone for long, and he was right.

A dark-skinned Zabrak marched a rather talkative captive down the hall toward him. The human's broad shoulders and infamous smile were instantly familiar to Kell. He sprang from his seat. "Janson?"

The man looked up and stared for a moment, and then stretched out his arms in the largest, most welcoming gesture his stun cuffs permitted, "Tainer! Shivat, what an ugly mustache! Face didn't put you up to that, did he?"

Kell laughed as the two approached and the officer punched a code into a security panel, momentarily deactivating the energy shield that separated them from the cell. As the crackling yellow wall dissipated, Janson stepped through and held out his hands. The guard removed his stun cuffs, then stood back and reactivated the barrier.

Janson adjusted the length of orange fabric draped over his shoulder, "Thanks for letting me keep the souvenir, Ceros!" The Zabrak muttered something about procedure as he walked away.

Wes turned back to Kell and instinctively gave his ex-subordinate a trademark wampa-hug. "So, what are you in for?" He asked casually, taking a seat.

"It's a long story," Kell sighed heavily, "Involving an beautiful woman and a large bantha."

Janson arched an eyebrow, "Sounds like a holo I saw once."

Kell gestured toward Janson's shoulder, where the remains of Wedge's flight-suit rested. "They believed you when you said your ID was in your other flight-suit?"

"Oh, no. This one's Wedge's."

"He's not going to waltz out of an interrogation room naked, is he?"

"Not this time." Janson winked, then looked around the room for a chronometer. "He should be busting us out any minute now."

Kell nodded. It was difficult for him to imagine Janson without Wedge following to keep him in check.

Janson stirred, thinking, then shot a finger at Kell's chest. "Hey, was that you arguing with the little green hottie before the walls came down?"

"Oh, no, no," Kell warned with a wagging finger, "That 'little green hottie' is a Falleen, Wes. Stay away from her."

"Jealous much, Tainer?"

"She warps minds, Wes. Leave her alone."

"Let's say we're at a bar and she comes up to me..."

Kell folded his arms across his chest. "I'm telling you, she's not worth the trouble."

"Then why are you chasing her?"

"Classified information, Major."

"Seriously?" Wes scowled at Kell's affirmative nod, then bounced up toward the front of the cell, and watched the hall. "Can't wait to tell Hobbie, then."

"Who?"

Janson motioned toward the hallway where a small blonde woman was escorting a very discouraged looking Hobbie down the hall. He shuffled his feet and spared a glance behind him before they reached the cell.

"Hey, Hobbie, guess what?" Wes taunted.

"No."

"Oh, come on, guess!"

"I'm tired of guessing. No more guessing." The woman removed Hobbie's stun cuffs and guided him into the cell, then reset the security measures and walked away.

With an unceremonious 'whumph,' Hobbie collapsed into a bench in the back of the cell and stared blankly.

"What's wrong with him?" Kell asked, suspicious of the newcomer.

"Kell, this is Hobbie, my wing-mate. Hobbie, this is Kell, the Wraith with bombs." Wes sighed. "Hobbie is grumpy because he missed his nap time."

Hobbie slammed his palm against the bench, "You set me up!"

"You're the one that fell into the cages."

"No, with her, Wes!"

Janson arched an eyebrow. "All I did was take you to the circus."

"What about the bar? Did you set that up, too?"

"Hey, _you_ picked the bar."

"Wait," Kell interjected, "You're the guy from the bar?"

"Oh, you're in on it, too?" Hobbie demanded, waving his arms in disgust. "That's just great, Wes."

"Hey!" Janson howled, "I refuse to be blamed for a prank I didn't orchestrate. At least not the failed ones."

"Which bar?" Kell prodded, "Was it the Blue Noon?"

"I don't know. It was some stupid little bar in the university district, close to base."

Kell laughed. "You're the guy that rejected her?"

"I had a headache!"

The silence that followed was awkward for each of them. Kell wanted to pry, having heard only one side of the story; Hobbie wanted to forget about all of it and go home; and, for Wes, it was just too quiet.

"Your girlfriend's a bad guy, Hobbes."

"Then go get her. She just left."

Kell sat up, "She was here?"

"Yeah, she," Hobbie considered his next words carefully, "She said you were 'persistent' and that we'd 'meet again, someday'."

"Oo, sounds romantic," Janson cooed.

Kell sagged, "We'll have to start searching her old safe houses, then. She's going to be hiding for a while."

Simultaneously, Kell and Hobbie sighed.

Wes brightened. "Look at the plus side, Hobbes: Once she's in a cell, she won't be able to run away from you!"

"Bite me."

...

As he conquered the innumerable amount of steps to the entrance of the building simply labeled "Planetary Security," Wedge Antilles tried desperately to remember the last day he'd been able to sit back and relax without becoming suspicious of the serenity.

The day had started out relatively normal. He had a sani-steam and a cup or two of caf before giving in to the stack of reports he had been avoiding. They weren't so bad. Signatures here, details there, more signatures, some dates, some random obscure identity validation: it was routine.

By the time lunch rolled around, he was starting to feel as if his day had become a little too normal and his shoulders were extraordinarily tense because of it. As he gathered his notes regarding a group of new recruits he was scheduled to greet, a sense of dread flooded the back of his mind.

Tycho had entered his office; shocked amusement would have played across his face if he weren't so remarkably unshakable. He simply asked, "Have you heard?"

Wedge cocked his head to the side. "What happened?"

The severe man proceeded to flip on the local HoloNet frequency from a projector Wedge never knew his office possessed; a redheaded woman sprung to life, mid-explanation regarding a local incident.

Wedge Antilles, hero of the New Republic, watched in horror as a crew of officials milled over the remnants of a large group of brightly striped tents. Animal control officials could be spotted herding exotic animals in the background and, if he held his face just right, he was absolutely positive that he witnessed Wes Janson and a group of Ewoks being stuffed into security transport vehicles.

His glance darted between Tycho and the broadcast, "How recent is this?"

"They've been covering the scene for the last two hours. Local officials have attempted to contact the military police, but communications have been dismissed: They believe the whole thing is a prank, given that it involves Janson and Ewoks."

As if on cue, the comm-link in Wedge's breast pocket buzzed. He fumbled with it for a moment and then answered.

'Yes. I'll be right down' had been the last complete thought he had been able to express before arriving at the security headquarters. Janson was notorious for pulling pranks, but demolishing establishments was a new one. Something must have gone horribly wrong.

The receptionist was a small woman with unquestionable femininity, her hair recently styled and her nails polished. She smiled brightly at them through thin, painted lips. "General Antilles, Colonel Celchu, if you'll just place your hands on the plate so I can verify your biometrics, you'll be on your way."

The men obliged and their identities were confirmed with a flash. The girl punched a few extra commands into her datapad, presumably recording the time and date of the visit, and led them though an angular set of corridors. "Do you wish to review our recordings, before you leave?"

Wedge shook his head; the New Republic was already in the process of acquiring all recorded information. He would be reliving the event for months to come, thanks to all of the committees and review boards the incident would be filtered through. He wanted to be able to see the event for himself, in the privacy of his office, before he was subjected to its inevitable scrutiny.

Tycho smiled at the woman. "General Antilles is very busy this morning. As soon as all of the data is collected and forwarded to his office, he will personally review them."

"I'll get right on that," She giggled and tapped a few more keys on her datapad.

The plain white hallway emptied into a large chamber lined with humming yellow holding-cells. The array of felons that occupied the space could only be described as eccentric: blue Ewoks, a shaved Wookie, and what Wedge believed to be the galaxy's skinniest Hutt were instantly recognizable.

Among the fray, a mud-caked Hobbie dozed in the corner while an excited Wes Janson recounted one of his outlandish stories to another very familiar face.

"Wedge," Wes exclaimed mid-story, acknowledging his superior's presence and flinging his hand to his forehead for dramatic emphasis. "I knew you'd come for me!"

"Kell Tainer!" The name immediately sprung forward from the back of Wedge's mind: he couldn't help but spit it out, completely ignoring Wes. "Is that really you? What the blazes are you doing here?"

The man hung his head in mock shame. "I'm innocent Wedge, whatever you've heard. Janson did it. Can I go home now?"

The receptionist spoke up, all but forgotten in the moment. "Subject 349-KDT is being held pending investigation of several false identities. If you are willing to give a statement and adequate documentation supporting his name, I can arrange that he be released into your custody."

"Yes, yes, whatever you need. Let's get you guys out of here." Wedge nodded in approval, happy to see an old friend. "What's with the fake mustache?"

"It's an experiment, Wedge," Wes joked, clapping Kell on the back vigorously. "The longer he can keep it alive, the less likely Tyria will be asking about babies."

"I tried that; Iella just refused to kiss me until I shaved." The young woman handed Wedge her datapad and a stylus, prompting for a set of signatures.

Wedge pointed toward the back of the cell, where Hobbie started to rouse, "What's up with him?"

"It's a long story," Wes explained, "Fully documented on holo. Quite an epic."

As the group marched out of their cell, Wedge noted the swath of orange cloth draped over Wes's shoulder. He recognized a sleeve and a set of badges, and then he read his name. "Is that my flight-suit?"

"Oh, yes!" Wes called over his shoulder, as to not stop the flow of traffic. "It's for you."

"I'd hope so, it's got my name on it."

"I had some friends spruce it up for you."

"It looks ruined!"

"Ruined, or awesome?"

"Alright," Tycho interrupted, co-signing a set of documents on their way out the door. "It's time to go home, kids. We've got holos to watch."


End file.
